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Chapter Two
Korsakov’s main import-export operation runs out of a boxy, steel-gray warehouse at the city ports where containers loaded with cargo come and go, and the palms of the port authority are greased so well, everything slides past notice. The property is secured behind fencing, perimeter cameras, and at night, a lot of guys with guns.
I’ve always hated coming down here, but tonight feels unnervingly similar to three years ago when I was certain I wouldn’t be walking out, at least not with all my body parts still attached.
The asshole lumbering ahead of me, whistling an ominous Kill Bill tune, isn’t helping.
Tony pauses long enough to turn back and flash a vicious grin, though it ends in a grimace of pain that pleases me. His nose has stopped bleeding, but it’s red and swollen. If he were smart, he’d head to the hospital and get it set properly this time.
If he were smart.
I ignore him and the throb in my arm where he gripped me too tight, and concentrate on the explanation I crafted on the way over. It’s best I keep my story vague and simple, and focus Korsakov on why he values me in the first place. He has always praised me for my gut instincts.
There were eyes on me. It wasn’t safe. I would have gotten caught.
I’ll only play the Sofie card if I absolutely must.
“Who is that?” Pidge frowns at a white SUV parked by the door. Two stone-faced men sit in the front seats, watching us pass. The feel of their eyes on me makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
Tony shrugs, unconcerned. Whoever owns that vehicle must be inside, and they wouldn’t be there unless Korsakov allowed it. Plus, the armed guards surrounding this warehouse surely have their sights trained on them.
Tony punches in the security code that releases the door lock on the steel door.
I hold my breath, bracing myself for Korsakov’s voice. When he’s angry, he only has one volume, and you can hear him all the way from the other side of this cavernous space.
Instead, silence greets us.
“Where is everybody?” Pidge’s keys jangle from his fingertips as we march along the corridor. On either side of us are aisles of towering pallets full of product, the forklifts sitting idle.
“In the office,” Tony says, calling out louder. “We’re back, and we brought your little lizard with us!” An echo of his booming voice is the only response. He slows. Finally, the big dumb lout must sense the eeriness that climbed over my skin the second we stepped inside.
Tony juts his chin toward Pidge, and they both draw their guns. Pidge instructs me to get behind him with a nod of his head. I don’t argue. I’ll happily use him as a shield as I look for any opportunity to run.
My heart pounds in my ears as we proceed to the back of the building, where the door to the office sits ajar. Pidge gives it a push, and it swings open with a moaning creak.
A soundless gasp escapes my mouth.
Korsakov’s office is a long, narrow, windowless room, lined with filing cabinets that hold decades of paperwork. Normally it smells of burnt black coffee and smoldering tobacco.
Now, it reeks of death.
Bodies are scattered, their gaping wounds weeping into the cheap blue industrial carpet. Blood splatter decorates the drab beige walls in sweeping arcs like a sinister artwork exhibit. Four men lay dead, including Korsakov himself, sprawled on his back, his neck slashed from ear to ear.
And in the center of the carnage, seated cross-legged in Korsakov’s chair, is a woman with copper-red hair, observing us with a taunting smile.
Both Tony and Pidge make to raise their guns.
Sofie moves so quickly, my mind doesn’t register the flying objects until the men drop their weapons in unison and grip their forearms, howling in agony.
My eyes widen at the twin daggers that protrude from their wrists.
“Do not,” she warns simply.
Do not fight, do not run … Just do not.
I couldn’t if I wanted to. I am frozen in place.
A feeble groan pulls my eyes to the floor. Korsakov is still alive, though barely, and I doubt for long. He always seemed an unstoppable force, beckoning people to do his bidding with a few commanding words, a threatening squint. Now, he’s nothing more than a helpless man, carved by the sword that lies atop his desk, staining stacks of paper in crimson.
